Not the Cleaners.

The following series of seemingly-unrelated events have happened to me over the past month: I got a nice-smelling bottle of cologne for Christmas from one of my mom's frinds.  I dry-cleaned a bunch of shirts.  One of my favorite sweaters seemed to get bleached on the collar.  I gave some clothes to charity.  I got ready for work one morning and -- with the dry-cleaning tag intact -- found that one of my non-wrinkle blue patterened shirts had the ring-around-the-collar bleached out of it.  I took that shirt out of rotation and told my roommates to stay away from that cleaners.  I washed and dried the old sweater, and the discoloration remained.  I found two more dress shirts with similar bleach-around-the-collar issues.  Yet something nagged at me.



Finally, the epiphany: it wasn't the cleaners' fault.   I went and told my roommates.



How did I know?  Thanks to my well-liked sweater.  Out of the four major articles of clothing I found suffering from this problem, all of them had been to the cleaners...except one: the sweater.  The sweater had been through the wash, but still had similar signs of abuse.  All of them shared one thing in common: I had been wearing that new cologne with all of them. 



It wasn't the cleaners.  It' was the damn cologne.  It's in the trash now.

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